Five
Bronislav’s Mansion
Moscow, Russia
Pain was something Andrius Bronislav understood. He enjoyed giving it more than receiving it, but the pain radiating through his body now was clearing his mind. That was something he appreciated, even relished.
“Your coffee, sir,” his manservant announced.
“On the table,” he said with a wave of his hand.
“Yes, sir.”
The tray was placed on the end table next to his favorite chair and the man quietly exited the sitting room. Andrius stiffly walked to his plush chair by the window and sank down.
His injuries were just scars and lingering aches now. There had been enough time and effort since his escape from Colin Coldhouse’s compound in Lithuania to bring himself this far, but after an intense workout, he always felt more pain.
He wasn’t angry. He was beyond anger and a simple need for vengeance. No, he wanted something far, far deeper. He wanted blood—lots of it, and he wanted to watch it drain slowly, drawing out the pain as long as possible.
The royal family of Jawahir was going to lose everything. They would feel exactly what they had done to him. And Dallas, she was going to die. These were the only things that kept him focused.
The snowfall outside caught his eye. He let his gaze linger on the view. This mansion was the last untouched holding of his once great empire. The money he had been able to transfer was locked in a vault deep within the belly of it. Andrius could no longer trust anything digital. Banks—even those once thought to be untouchable—were no longer safe. He had discovered that the hard way when over a billion dollars in assets disappeared in less than a minute.
His hand shook slightly as he poured hot tea into the fine china cup. He replaced the teapot, and lifted the cup with one hand while he pulled a manila folder onto his lap. Opening the folder, he studied the images within.
The Saif-Ad-Dins had a hacker in their pocket, one they relied on over and over. Eliminating that hacker was the first thing he needed to do. Neglecting to do so was a miscalculation Andrius had made from the very beginning, a fatal flaw that continued to haunt him.
The next priority was butchering the royal family. The most vulnerable member was Dr. Junayd Saif-Ad-Din. Unlike the rest of his family, he stayed outside the sphere of his government for long stretches of time—and he was currently in New York. How convenient.
Andrius retrieved his phone, typed in an encrypted message, and sent it. Relaxing back in his seat, he sipped his tea and stared out at the snow. In less than a minute, his phone vibrated and he answered it.
“I have two jobs for you,” he murmured.
Three days later, Midnight sat under the Brooklyn Bridge waiting for the sun to set. The weather had taken a turn for the worse and the temperature was dropping, but she didn’t notice it. Her mind was not on the transition from day to night or the job Junebug had sent her. She was reliving her kiss with Junayd.
She hoped he would return to Jawahir soon. If he wasn't in the city, she might be able to forget about him. Though she had resisted the urge to return to his apartment, she had spent the last two nights following him around the city.
I’m actually a frigging stalker now, she thought with distaste.
But this was business, not personal. Bronislav had made contact with someone. They suspected it was Colin Coldhouse. Junebug couldn’t be sure because there was no way to decipher the encrypted message and the following phone call had been too brief to track.
“They know I'm watching—well, they know someone is watching,” Junebug had said, biting her lower lip. “I’ve got a bad feeling, Mid. I recognize some of this source code. They are using some really good people.”
“Be careful. If you're not sure, pull out, cover your tracks, and go dark.”
Junebug had assured her that she was still in the shadows, but Midnight knew that was no guarantee of safety. Even Qadir and Tarek were not safe, and they had been protected by elite guards during the incident months ago. It had shocked the world: the royal heir of Jawahir kidnapped and his brother left for dead.
Qadir and Tarek were now healthy and safe, but Junayd might be the most tempting target for Bronislav's schemes this time. Tarek frequently visited New York, but only for very brief periods of time. He was also more experienced in these types of situations than Junayd was.
Midnight tossed the rest of her egg and cheese biscuit to a waiting seagull and climbed up the bridge, slipping unseen through the service access panel onto the walkway. Her only job tonight was locating Aaron, a teen boy who had run away.
The pay was minimal, but the job was important. His grandparents didn’t want him mixed up in a gang. They had made arrangements to send him to his aunt who lived in California.
She was going to be earning her money tonight. Midnight hated getting between gangs. The Yellow Jackets were new, but they had deep pockets, their support coming from Texas. They had been recruiting pretty heavily the last few months, dropping a lot of money, making big promises, and flashing a lot of heat. Biggy wouldn’t tolerate that kind of influence in his territory.
If she was smart, she would have told the grandparents to write off the kid, but of course she couldn’t do that. He was only thirteen and still reeling from the death of his parents.
Where’s Harlem when you need him, she dryly thought.
She remembered the way she had seen Harlem when she was a child. He was like an epic myth who was somehow real. He had shared that greatness with all the children he collected, finding their spark and training them to be formidable.
Her hand instinctively went to the scar on her face.
Midnight shook her head. Harlem was gone, her mother was gone, and she was now the next generation standing up for the little guys. Though her impact was geographically limited, it was significant to the people she helped.
Her work also meant she didn't need a job that was more social. People were something she tolerated, not enjoyed.
Except for a certain dark-haired prince, she thought.
She groaned as her thoughts came full circle back to Junayd. She cut through several alleys, heading towards the Bronx as darkness fell and the brighter, flashier lights of the city dimmed slightly. Soon, there were stores with bar-covered windows, flashing signs for tattoos and adult entertainment, and warning signs graffitied on the dividing line between the two gangs’ territories.
“Heyyyy, Midnight,” a gruff, slurred voice called.
Midnight changed directions, glancing at the sparse car traffic and nearby pedestrians before crossing the street toward the old man propped on a pile of old bedspreads. She stepped up onto the sidewalk, noticing that it was cracked and stained with the dirty residue of gum and who knew what else.
“Hey, Walt, how are you doing?” she asked with concern, squatting next to the bent shopping cart filled with odds and ends as she studied the man’s hairy, lined face.
“Staying warm,” he chuckled, lifting a half-full bottle of cheap wine.
“When’s the last time you ate?” she inquired.
Walt coughed, snorted, and thankfully turned his head before he spat. He took a swig of the wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before he answered with a wheeze.
“This morning… yesterday… maybe the day before.”